


efficiency

by ceeturnalia (traveller), mellyflori



Series: here we are millionaires [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Everyone hates the new guy. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	efficiency

**Author's Note:**

> a crossover, or perhaps a collision, between _[Une Histoire de Bleu](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1837783?view_full_work=true)_ and _[here we are millionaires](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2000334?view_full_work=true)_ ; two stories which follow different threads in the same universe. 
> 
> here we visit some other events in that shared history.

**_Paris, November 2007_**  
  
Everyone hates the new guy.   
  
He's not unpleasant, but he is quiet and borders on brusque. He doesn't joke, he doesn't go out for drinks after a shift, he doesn't make conversation on long drives or flights. He's focused, is what the department head says. He's a prick, is what the other agents say.   
  
Close Security is the gig everybody wants -- it pays the most, and from the outside it looks cushy as hell. Who wouldn't want to spend their days sitting in the corner of some warehouse while Madame and a half dozen other models take incredibly expensive clothes on and off? Going to five star restaurants and exclusive clubs with Louis? Taking weekends on Capri? It sounds  _amazing._ It sounds like the easiest job in existence, until you get handed a binder six centimeters thick with credible threats against Louis, and suddenly the last fucking thing you want to do is follow him into a crowded, dark room full of drunk unknowns and pounding bass. It sounds like cake, until everybody's called in to be told that Madame's number one fan got paroled early, and the next day following her from shop to shop feels more like running corner to corner through Baghdad.   
  
Porthos' experience and a word from his old CO got him a spot on a Close team almost immediately -- he only had to spend a couple months paying his newbie dues in Corporate. Even so, some of the other agents gave him shit about how fast he advanced. It was supposedly unprecedented.   
  
The new guy not only gets placed in Close on day one, he gets made lead over Pinet on Team Three, and Pinet had been expecting that promotion for months. No explanation, no nothing. One day Athos is just  _there_ , watching everyone and everything with bright, intense blue eyes.   
  
"Athos," scoffs Pinet. "What is that, like Madonna?"   
  
Porthos shrugs. He doesn't get involved in workplace drama. If these guys want to squabble and gossip and maneuver for position like a bunch of teenage girls, that's their business. He does his job, he likes his job, he’s good at his job. As long as the guy next to him is covering his sector, he doesn’t care who he’s partnered with or on what team. Maybe, he wonders, if he’d gone to high school he’d be more competitive.   
  
After three weeks, Porthos knows two things about Athos. The first is that one evening, Porthos arrived at the gym and spotted Athos running on the treadmill. He went about his workout, took a shower and got his stuff together. When he left, a good hour later, Athos was still running, staring straight ahead.   
  
The second is that when Athos qualified on the gun range, he'd stepped up to the window and put half his clip in the target's head, the other half in the heart. Then he’d signed his piece and his protective gear back in, and walked out.   
  
After three weeks, Porthos knows absolutely shit about Athos.   
  
The Bourbons throw a huge party in late November; it's out at their massive “country house” in the Loire Valley, and security is a fucking  disaster. People are wandering all over the grounds, in and out of areas in the chateau that were supposed to be blocked off. Porthos has to remove three different black-flagged former Bourbon employees who insist they just want to  _talk_ to Louis. At least one security team doesn’t even appear to be there at all.   
  
At one point, he spots Athos by the courtyard fountain. A woman wearing what must have been a dazzling evening gown is standing up out of the lower bowl, water and red sequins cascading off her in equal measure.   
  
"If you please, madame," Athos says to her, holding out his hand with a courtly bow. She takes it, and regally steps out of the fountain. A couple of staff appear with towels and a robe, and usher her away.   
  
Porthos catches Athos' eye, and Athos inclines his head, just a fraction. Porthos nods back.  
  
There's something familiar about Athos, something that occasionally seems blazingly obvious and other times is just like a sliver under the skin, in too deep to scrape out, but still clearly felt. Either way, Porthos can't get hold of it. Athos is a compact man, wears his hair a bit long, a thick full beard, impeccable dresser. His appearance doesn’t seem to be it, except when it does. Something around the eyes, maybe. Maybe he knew Athos in the army, although the name is meaningless, and they certainly never served directly together. Not someone he knew as a kid, Athos is far too posh for that, and Aramis doesn't know the name either.   
  
_O. d'Athos_  is what it says on the schedule. Seems like a name you'd remember.   
  
They have a department-wide debrief after the party. Athos is sitting at the front of the room with Souza, the department head, and Clèment, his XO. Athos is introduced by Souza as  _Special Security Officer_ , a role that, as far as Porthos knows, did not exist before today.The murmur that ripples through the room is ugly. Porthos shakes his head, and opens his notebook.   
  
When it's all done, the six Close teams have been completely reshuffled, five men have been fired, and Pinet has loudly threatened to quit. Athos simply crossed his arms and nodded at the door. Pinet sat back down. Porthos is now on Team Three, partnered with Athos.   
  
One of the only people who knew what the fuck they were doing, Athos had said, pointing at him, and Porthos had struggled not to shrink under the heat of the glares suddenly coming his way. There were mutters behind him; he straightened his back and ignored them.   
  
He stays seated as the room empties; Athos is gathering up papers from the table. He takes a look at Porthos, and makes a  _go on_ gesture.  
  
“Why me?” Porthos says. It’s the first time he’s spoken to Athos in all these weeks.   
  
“You’re good at your job,” Athos says simply, tapping his papers into a neat stack and putting them into a leather folder. “You have excellent instincts, you pay attention to details that others miss or disregard. And I have no desire to work with anyone of lesser ability.”   
  
Porthos accepts the praise with a nod; he knows he’s good, and it’s nice to hear it. “It’s not going to make your job any easier,” he points out. “I’ll have your back, but a lot of people—“  
  
“I don’t care,” Athos interrupts, his eyes bright, his voice more impassioned than it was even when he was dressing down the entire staff. “Anyone who’s more interested in interpersonal politics than protecting our clients isn’t going to last very much longer. These teams need to be focused and competent, that’s all that matters. I don’t believe in placating egos, du Vallon, I believe in efficiency.”   
  
Porthos blinks.   
  
_I believe in efficiency._  
  
Fuck, he thinks. So  _that’s_  where I know him from.   


 

* * *

  
  
  
**_Guer-Coëtquidan,_** ** _April 2000_**  
  
Olly has had a life that has left him with certain expectations. What is confidence, after all, than the expectation that things will go your way? In Olly's case, his expectations are usually met. Tonight, he expects he'll get fucked.   
  
It is not so structured a habit that it could be called ritual, but it does tend to take the same shape. Weekend pass, ring his father to say he's busy, can't meet, impossible, maybe next time. Grab a room at Le Bellvue, the least shit of all of Guer's shit hotels. Strike out on the hunt. Avoid the cadet bars. Olly doesn't do cadets.   
  
Olly does do: visiting enlisted, the occasional officer, tourists of the right shape and size, and a certain species of local. In his almost two years at Saint-Cyr, he's had most of the town's bartenders, and a not-insignificant chunk of the waitstaff. They tend to move on quickly, so he's in little danger of breaking his rules about seconds.   
  
Olly doesn't do encores.   
  
He's been watching the soldier at the bar for a few minutes, the breadth of his shoulders, of his hands as he gestures. The bright flashing smile, wicked, and likely to turn filthy at a moment’s notice. Something about the way he stands, the way his eyes flick over some of the men who pass him, tells Olly that he'll be up for it. He doesn't look like he's  _looking_ but Olly's pretty sure he'll buy if presented with the right offer.   
  
The guy’s companions leave him for the dart board, and Olly takes a long sip of his gin and tonic. Doesn’t do to rush over there like you’ve been waiting, but don’t leave the opening too long. A guy like this won’t be alone for more than a few minutes.   
  
Another swallow and then Olly crosses the room, leans on the bar and turns one of his very best smiles up at tall, dark and hotness.   
  
“Hey soldier,” he says. “Buy you a drink?”  
  
The guy stares at him a moment, and then his face lights up, eyes twinkling. “I had no idea people even said that outside of bad movies.  Does that ever actually work?”  
  
Olly quirks one eyebrow. “Dunno, is it working?”   
  
“No, but that smile might be.”  
  
 The guy is playing along, and Olly's grin gets even bigger. “Really, can I buy you a drink?”  
  
"Mmm… no, that one's too big,” the guys says, mock-thoughtful. "Now you look like you're trying to sell me something.  Aim somewhere in the middle.”  
  
Olly laughs, and takes his grin down to a dirty little smirk. He cocks his head. "How about now?"  
  
The guy nods with his own smirk, and gestures to the barstool next to him.  
  
The bartender circles back to them just then, and Olly nods at her, gestures to Porthos’ bottle. “Another of what he’s having,” he requests; finishes his own drink with a last quick swallow, and pushes the glass toward her. “And another gin and tonic, thanks.”  He tosses a note on the bar.    
  
“So,” the guy asks, accepting the bottle when the bartender returns. “Does that grin come with a name?”   
  
"No, but the drink does. Olivier." He offers his hand.   
  
Porthos has to laugh because god, that fits, this posh little bastard, walking like he owns the entire town and doesn’t care. His watch looks like it cost more than what Porthos used to pay for a year’s rent.   
  
“Olivier,” he repeats, and takes the man’s hand. “Porthos.”   
  
He’s not really surprised at the strength of the handshake, or the distinctive rougher spots on the skin. All the arrogance aside, there’s something equally distinctive in his bearing, the tilt of his chin and how lightly he stands, that tells Porthos that Olivier knows a soldier when he sees one for a reason. A Saint-Cyrian. Has to be.   
  
They’re a sight, he has to admit, ramrod straight backs, shining shoes in lockstep, their sabers gleaming in the sun. Porthos has no trouble imagining this one in the uniform. He’d even make that ridiculous hat look good. There's more to Saint-Cyr than parades, though; Porthos knew that even before he was sent to train adjacent to the academy. Best military minds in Europe, is what they say.   
  
He slants a look over at Olivier to see that Olivier is watching him, his glass sitting untouched at his elbow. He’s looking at Porthos like a commander looks at a battlefield map. He’s looking at Porthos like he’s deciding the best way to conquer him.   
  
"Just how fast am I going to have to drink this beer?” Porthos drawls.  
  
Olivier lifts one shoulder. "In your own time, I haven't got anywhere else to be."  
    
“I’m sure you could find a way to fill the time.” Porthos leans in a little closer, his beer bottle near his lips. “I’m not the only one in here who wouldn’t mind seeing that smirk wrapped around his cock.”   
  
“Wouldn’t mind?” Olly murmurs, and lets his hand drop onto Porthos’ thigh. “You make it sound like such a trial.”   
  
He hadn’t expected this, this easy rapport. Fucking this man is going to be _phenomenal._  
  
Porthos flashes his dimples. “Guess we’re going to find out, if you’re up for it.”   
  
“I think I’m up for whatever you’re up for,” Olly says, and gives Porthos’ muscular thigh a little rub.   
  
Porthos’ eyes dance, and he straightens up, putting a small buffer zone between them; when he speaks again, he sounds less teasing and more curious. “Are you always like this?” he asks. "This… forward?”   
  
“Yes,” Olly says simply, sitting back with a shrug. “I don’t think there’s anything to be gained from pretending I don’t know what I want, and I don’t find guessing what other people want to be particularly useful, either. Why shouldn't I just ask? If the answer was no, I’d leave you alone. Since the answer appears to be yes, isn’t that more… efficient?”   
  
That makes Porthos laugh. “Efficient,” he echoes. “Is that what this is?”   
  
“Isn’t it? No stupid dancing around, no misunderstanding, no assumptions. Here’s where I stand, right. I think if you weren’t into men, you would’ve said so well before you let me get my hand this close to your dick.” He squeezes Porthos’ thigh. “I think we both came out for a good time, and I think you look like you know how to have one. And I think you’re fucking gorgeous, and I think the way you’re greased into those jeans should be against the goddamn law.”  
  
Porthos almost chokes on his next sip from his drink. “Well,” he says, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand. “That answers my next question.”  
  
Olly cocks his head.   
  
“Why me,” Porthos says.   
  
“Do you wanna fuck in front of a mirror, so you can _see_ why you?” Olly growls.   
  
“Well, I’m not opposed to that, but if we do, I’m damn sure not going to be watching me. Not if the rest of you is as pretty as all this.” Porthos reaches out and trails the back of his finger up the side of Olly’s neck. It’s an effort not to shiver.   
  
“So,” Porthos says. "That leaves me with just one last question.”  
  
Olly waves his drink in a ‘go on’ gesture.  
  
“How far are we from somewhere with a door we can lock behind us?”  He finishes his beer with a long last pull, and sets the bottle on the bar with a hollow thunk.  
  
Victory, Olly thinks, putting his own glass down, still largely untouched. “Five minutes. I have a room at the Bellvue.” At Porthos’ look, he rolls his eyes. “What? I told you, I believe in efficiency.”    
  
Porthos’ follow-up look seems to say that if Olly were really all about streamlined, effective progress then he’d be getting his ass out the door already. He makes an after-you gesture, and Olly tosses another, unnecessary note on the bar and then leads the way.   
  
Five minutes, more or less, down the street, into the hotel, smile at Monique, who’s on the desk tonight. She holds up an envelope and three fingers: messages. He shakes his head. He turns his mobile off for a reason on his liberty weekends, but at this point everyone (his father, his uncle Simon,  _Marion,_ beloved cousin and massive headache) knows the places to find him. If he’s not here, he’s at the Paris flat. The stalking is very tiring.   
  
Monique gives him the barest nod, and puts the envelope back down on the desk. If any of them were important, she’d have insisted. He heads for the stairs, trusting Porthos to be behind him.   
  
The reading lamps are on when they enter, and the bed is turned down. Olly tosses his key onto the writing desk, and watches Porthos closing the door firmly behind him. In the low golden light Porthos looks darker, and Olly wants to see those hands on his own skin, feel their weight and strength. He stalks forward, and catches Porthos by the hips.        
  
Porthos can feel the grip on his hips and expects Olivier is going to continue being as forward and _efficient_  as he has been up until now, but if he only gets one weekend of liberty a month, he’s not going to rush.  
  
Reaching down Porthos takes one of Olivier’s wrists in each hand, pulling them off his hips and holding them tight.  There’s a sharp inhale from Olivier and Porthos leans in and kisses it right out of his mouth.  Olivier’s head tilts, he’s trying to get closer, to press every bit of himself against Porthos.  
  
Porthos shifts Olivier’s wrists until he’s got both of them wrapped in one of his hands.  With the other he catches Olivier by the base of his skull, angling Olivier’s head just the way he wants so that he can deepen the kiss. He licks his way into that posh, smirking mouth and feels Olivier arch against him.  The press of his body is less eager this time, more sinuous; there’s a long soft sigh as though this, _this_  is what Olivier had been wanting.  
  
There’s a rumbling purr from deep in Porthos’ chest before he lifts his head again.  “Take your clothes off for me.”  
  
Without a word, Olly takes a step back, his hands working at the buttons of his shirt.  Porthos is watching his hands pulling at his own zipper, tugging his trousers down and off.  He thinks they’re both imagining what Olly’s hands will look like against Porthos’ skin, what they’ll look like when they’re finally pressed, naked, head to toe.   
  
When Olly’s clothes are all tossed across the chair at the tiny desk, Porthos says, “Come over here.”  
  
His eyes flick to the floor at his feet and Olivier doesn’t miss the look.  Porthos watches his face, there’s not a trace of the impudence from the bar.  Olivier is perfectly obedient, those blue eyes of his so huge in the dim light as he sinks to his knees in front of Porthos.  
  
“Take it out,” Porthos says, and Olivier doesn’t even nod, he just puts those long, clever fingers to work on the buttons of Porthos’ fly.    
  
Olly tugs Porthos’ jeans down a little, giving him enough room to pull Porthos’ cock out.  It’s thick and heavy in his hands, not quite hard, and all he wants is to feel that broad head against his tongue. His mouth waters; he licks his lips and swallows.  
  
Porthos is surprised at how quiet Olivier’s become.  He’s seen Aramis get like this, the needy openness, the naked want and soft obedience, but Aramis is always talking.  The only sound Olivier is making is a happy little sigh.  
  
A grin tugs at the corner of Porthos’ mouth.  “Go on then.”   
  
Olly’s mouth drops open and he leans in, prepared to take as much of Porthos as he can into his mouth.  He’s stopped by Porthos’ fingers tangling in his hair.  “Show me first.  Show me how much you want it.”  
  
The sound Olly makes is eager, painfully needy, and Porthos lets go of his hair, leaving Olly free to fall forward.  Olly rests his head against Porthos' hip, turning his face so he can stroke his cheek against Porthos’ cock, nosing at the dark curls at the base and humming with pleasure.  He’s fully hard now and Christ, it’s everything Olly had hoped for when he was watching this guy across the bar. He drags his mouth along the length of it, licking and kissing it, feeling how hot it is against his skin, how soft.  
  
Porthos’ voice is amused. “You are keen, aren’t you?”  Olly traces his tongue along the underside of Porthos’ cock with a pleased sigh in answer, and looks up to meet Porthos’ eyes.  
  
“Go on,” he rumbles. “ Let’s have your mouth, then.”     
  
His fingers sink into Olly’s hair again, moving his face around until Olly is staring down the length of Porthos’ cock.  Porthos holds him there for a minute just watching Olly, watching him pull against Porthos' hold in an effort to get Porthos into his open mouth.  He lets out a low whine and looks up into Porthos’ face, begging with his eyes.  
  
“Mmm. Can’t resist that look, now, can I?”   Porthos loosens his hold, but keeps his fingers carding through Olly’s hair.  
  
Olly melts into him, sinking his mouth down over Porthos and humming, deep and satisfied. His fingers wrap around Porthos’ thighs, bracing and balancing himself as he does his best to fuck his own face onto Porthos’ cock.     
  
Porthos can feel himself nudging at the back of Olivier’s mouth; he wonders if he should pull back until he sees Olivier’s face, his eyelashes flush against his cheeks and his muscles slack. That’s bliss, right there. That’s a happy man.   
  
So instead, Porthos grips his hand in Olivier’s hair again and orders, “Open your mouth.”  Olivier drops his jaw open, letting the tension out of his lips, and it’s all the signal Porthos needs to start fucking Olivier’s mouth. His eyes start to water with the pressure of Porthos’ cock against the back of his throat, but he doesn’t move. He sits on his heels, being so good, while Porthos’ hips push into him again and again.  
  
Porthos keeps watching Olivier’s face, watching his cheeks get flushed and the saliva running out of Olivier’s mouth, and it’s hypnotic, how badly Olivier wants this. If Porthos loosens his grip, even for a second, Olivier’s hands tighten on Porthos’ thighs as he pulls himself further onto Porthos’ cock, gagging himself on it.  
  
It’s after one such display that Porthos tightens his grip again, pulling Olivier’s head back far enough that his mouth is empty and he can speak.  “I’m going to come soon,” Porthos tells him, his own voice gone hoarse. “And I’m trying to decide if you’ve done well enough for me to come in your mouth.”   
  
Olivier’s eyes grow wide, and Porthos doesn’t miss the desperate question on his face.   
  
"Look at you, can’t decide if you want it in your mouth or in your ass.  Don’t worry, pretty, I’m still gonna fuck you later.” He pets the crown of Olivier’s head. "So... your mouth.”  Porthos’ tone makes it a question, but Olivier is jerking his head in an aborted nod.  
  
Porthos hums and drags his thumb over Olivier’s lower lip, feeling the skin pull against his own as he considers, and reconsiders. “No. I think not in your mouth at all.” He tightens his grip on Olivier’s hair as he begins to stroke his cock.  
  
It’s a struggle for Porthos to not drop his head back or close his eyes, but he doesn’t want to miss a second of this.  Before long his strokes get faster and less controlled and then, with only a soft groan as a warning for Olivier to close his eyes,  he aims his cock at Olivier’s face and comes.  
  
There isn’t much, it’s not the movies, but what there is lands gorgeously across Olivier’s cheeks, his eyelids, the soft curve of his mouth. Because Porthos is watching he can see the flush that’s spread from Olivier’s cheeks clear down his pale torso.  He can see Olivier’s cock, desperate, leaking and red, jerking violently.     
  
When Olly finally calms himself enough to blink and look up there’s come in his eyelashes.  He can feel it running down the left side of his face, and a bit of it is dripping from his lower lip.   
  
“Very pretty,” Porthos says, in a tone of amused approval.  
  
He drags the head of his cock through the mess on Olly’s face and pushes the head back into Olly’s mouth for just a second, allowing him a few last soft licks, before pulling back and stroking the clean side of Olly’s face.  
  
“Much as I love that look, go clean yourself off. I’ll meet you in the bed.”  
  
Olly is just barely able to drag himself to his feet; it feels like every muscle in his body is pulling in a different direction, like he’s going to vibrate apart. His legs don’t want to hold him, and he trips twice in the short walk to the bathroom.   
  
He has to ignore the throb of his cock, the ache in his balls, while he wets a facecloth with cool water and scrubs it over his overheated face. This guy is perfect. This guy is _perfect_ , anticipating everything Olly wants, even some things that Olly wouldn’t even have thought to ask for.   
  
When he meets his own eyes in the mirror, he can’t help a breathless smile. He turns off the water and heads back out into the room.   
  
Porthos has pushed the covers down to the foot of the bed, leaving just the wide expanse of white linen, and his own long, dark body is sprawled in the middle of it. Olly feels his own cock jerk when he watches Porthos lazily take himself in hand, and he groans softly.   
  
Please, he’s thinking, climbing up on the bed and draping himself over Porthos’ body. Please, whatever you want, please, do it. He leans in and kisses Porthos, offering again the heat of his mouth. They kiss for what feels like a hour, and when Porthos’ broad hand slides from Olly’s hip to curve over Olly’s ass, he shudders.   
  
“Please,” he sighs.   
  
Porthos smiles, “So eager.  You’d take it right now, wouldn’t you?  You’d spread yourself for me and take it.”  
  
Olly makes a soft, desperate noise and hitches his hips forward.  
  
“But if I did that then I wouldn’t get to watch your face while I open you up, would I?”  His fingers toy with Olly’s ass, brushing over the crease and gripping the meat of it.  “Do you have lube?”  
  
Olly blinks, trying to remember words.  “Yes?”  
  
“Go get it.”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
When Olly comes back to the bed he stretches himself back out along the length of Porthos’ body, just like he’d imagined, feeling that hot skin against his own. This is it, he thinks again, exactly what he needed. His cock is a heavy, desperate thing but he can ignore it; he can let that go, let it all just fucking _go_ and just let Porthos use him.  
  
Porthos dribbles the lube over his fingers while Olivier kisses at his chest, his neck, licking the skin over his collarbone with a moan. When Porthos’ slick finger presses into him, Olivier breathes out another _yes,_ and itseems to stretch on and on.  
  
“Want more?” Porthos asks with a smile.  
  
“Yes. Please.”  Olivier’s eyes are huge, his pupils wide and black against that bright blue.  
  
“On your back then,” Porthos says, and he pushes at Olivier’s body, spreading his legs and lifting his knees until Olivier is open for him, his cock jerking against his belly.  
  
Porthos slides one finger in again, and Olivier whines for more.  He begs with his eyes, his hips, his mouth, repeating, “Please.   _Please.”_   in a ragged voice. Porthos would be happy to keep up this lazy pace, to stroke in and out until Olly actually loses his mind, except he’s getting hard again himself.   
  
This time when Olivier begs for more, Porthos gives it but instead of two fingers he skips ahead to three. The sudden press and stretch has Olivier rolling his hips, sighing into it as though it were everything he’d been dreaming of.    
  
“You asked for more, now you’ve got it. Want more still?”  
  
Olivier’s voice is soft but his words are not. “Yes, please, yes.  Please let me have it.”  When Porthos’ fingers twist inside him, Olivier’s back arches and he’s almost laughing. “Thank you,” he says, “thank you.”  
  
“So polite. Knew your face would be pretty like this.  Love seeing how much you want it.  Do you want it?”  Olivier nods.  “Tell me what you want.”  
  
“Your cock. Please. You. Inside me,” he gasps.  "I want you to fuck me.  Please. Fuck me.”  
  
“Want me to fuck you _now_?”  
  
Olivier doesn’t even speak in answer to that, just whines soft and high and tries to shove his ass further down Porthos’ thick fingers. He whines even louder when Porthos takes his hand away.   
  
“ _Please.”_  
  
Porthos flops back on the pillows, fumbling one hand toward the floor. “On your knees,” he instructs as he leans over the edge of the bed, finally finding his jeans on the floor. He’s pulling a condom from his pocket when he feels Olivier climbing over him, straddling his lap.  Porthos levers back upright, and meet’s Olivier’s wide, pleading eyes.  
  
“Oh pretty, I like what you’re thinking, but not this time.  Maybe for round three.” It doesn’t take much effort, for all that Olivier is solidly built of lithe, compact muscle, he doesn’t weigh hardly anything. Porthos dumps Olivier off his lap, flipping him onto his back at first, then grabbing him by the hips. He turns the body in his hands until Olivier is face-down on the bed; he takes Olivier’s wrists in his hands again, pinning them to the bed. Olivier’s whole body goes boneless, falling into the strength of Porthos’ grip.  
  
“I said, on your knees.”  
  
Olly works his knees under him, struggling in the odd position. It puts his ass in the air, but Porthos’ grip won’t let him raise his chest off the bed.  
  
Porthos gives a happy hum that Olly can feel against his back.  “Yeah, that’s good.”  Porthos leans in until he’s speaking directly into Olly’s ear.  “Your hole was so tight, stretching around my fingers. I can’t wait to see how gorgeous it is stretching around my cock, Olivier.”     
  
His own name is a breath in his ear and Olly almost sobs with want.  
  
Olly feels Porthos back off, then feels him stroke one hand down the length of Olly’s back. He hears the condom packet tearing open, the slick and snap of Porthos rolling it on. Olly manages to push up onto his elbows before Porthos replace his hand on Olly’s back, between his shoulder blades. “That’s far enough.”  
  
He keeps his hand there, a solid, warm weight against Olly’s back.  With his other hand wrapped around Olly’s hip, he lines his cock up with Olly’s hole and begins pressing in. Olly hears himself making a soft, high sound, a moan and a breath at once, and he leans back into it.    
  
Porthos is watching himself slide in, lube-slick but still having to push, and _god_ this guy is so fucking tight.  “Yeah,” he says.  “God, yeah,” and starts a slow push and pull, fucking himself into Olivier steady and firm.  He can hear Olivier mutter something to the sheets and he tightens his fingers on Olivier’s hip.  “What was that?”  
  
Olivier lifts his head and says, louder this time, “Harder.  Please, fuck. Fuck me harder.”  
  
Porthos can’t help a small chuckle, he loves an eager partner and this guy is giving him everything.  He’s loving watching Olivier coming apart like this.  He doesn’t speed up but he braces his weight on the arm that’s pinning Olivier’s back down, and puts a heavy, deliberate snap into his hips at the end of every thrust.  He is rewarded with a little burst of noise from Olivier every time. _Yes_ and _more_ and _good_ , interspersed with wordless keening praise for Porthos’ cock.  
  
Before long Olly is slipping forward on his arms, his elbows coming out from under him as Porthos presses down on his back.   Olly works his arms backwards, wriggling himself until he is grasping the backs of his own thighs.  His weight is on his left shoulder, his head turned to the right so that he can breathe.  In this position it feels like every muscle and tendon in his body is strung tight, like at any moment he could fly apart and only the weight and heat of Porthos’ hand is keeping him together.  
  
“Is that good?” Porthos asks.  
  
Olly’s face is red with exertion and the stress of breathing in this position but he croaks out an answer. “Yes, it’s so good.  Your cock is so good.  More, please. Fuck me more.  Yes. Yes. Yes.”  
  
Porthos fucks him harder, faster this time, too.  He’s sweating and his grip on Olivier’s hip keeps slipping and he can’t hold himself back much longer.  
  
“I’m going to come soon, and you’ve been so good for me. Good enough that I should come in your ass, maybe.”  It’s purely theoretical, the condom makes sure of that, but Porthos wants to hear Olivier beg for it anyway.    
  
Olivier’s lips are red and shiny with spit when he moves his head in something like a nod and sputters out “Yes, yes.”  
  
“Tell me how much.”  Porthos leans forward a little so he can speak close to Olivier’s ear. “Beg me for my come.”  
  
Olly doesn’t even know what he’s saying, he’s just pleading, praying. “Please let me have it. Please come in my ass.  Please, let me feel it.  Fuck . Fuck, so hot, I want it. Let me feel it. Come in me, please. God. _Please_."  
  
Porthos can’t resist that, and he doubts anyone would expect him to. He manages a few last snaps of his hips before he drives himself into Olivier and comes with a shouted, “Fuck!”  
  
He’d almost expected that he’d come untouched, the way Porthos was taking him apart; he tries to shove his ass back against Porthos’ hips and sobs in frustration when Porthos pulls out, away.   
  
“Give me your hand,” he begs, pushing himself back up onto all fours. “Please. Give me.”  
  
“I got you,” Porthos husks a moment later, manhandling Olly upright. He brings Olly back against his chest, one arm wrapped firmly around Olly’s middle, his other hand dropping to close around Olly’s cock.   
  
It doesn’t take much, and it doesn’t take long, only a few rough strokes. Olly feels like all the heat in his body condenses, concentrates in his aching balls, and then bursts outward. He throws his head back onto Porthos’ shoulder, shaking and gasping, and thank god Porthos really does have hold of him, or he’d be back on his face.   
  
They kneel together like that for a few moments, panting and trembling. Porthos still has his hand curled around Olly’s cock, and Olly inhales deeply, takes Porthos by the wrist, and brings his hand up to his mouth.   
  
Porthos groans when Olly begins to lick, his breath humid in Olly’s ear. Olly cleans the come off those long, thick fingers, sucks each one into his mouth and licks every knuckle. He finishes off with Porthos’ palm, stroking the broad flat of his tongue over every line and scar.   
  
“You’re something else,” Porthos rumbles, pulling his hand away, then putting it on Olly’s jaw, turning his head for a slick, dirty kiss.   
  
“Thanks,” Olly says sincerely, when they break apart. He disentangles himself from Porthos’ arms, and flops bonelessly down to the bed.   
  
“Stay, if you like,” he adds after a moment, flipping over the pillow that’s damp with his sweat and spit, and pressing his cheek to the cool linen. “Mmm. Fuck. That was _good_.”   
  
He hears and feels the whump of Porthos’ heavy body landing beside him, feels a hand slide gently across his stomach. Olly lies there, his mind blissfully empty, his muscles ticking like a cooling engine. Eventually he fumbles his cigarettes and lighter off the night table, and pushes himself up to half-sit against the headboard.   
  
Porthos is watching him again, his eyes narrow; Olly holds out the pack and Porthos declines with a small shake of his head. Olly lights up with a long relieved drag, blowing it out in a thin plume toward the ceiling. He smokes for a few moments, his breath growing slow, his limbs loose and light. Right now, everything’s perfect. He closes his eyes and reaches out with this free hand, curling his fingers around what feels like Porthos’ bicep. He squeezes.   
  
“Don’t lemme fall asleep with my cigarette,” he mumbles, and seconds after, feels Porthos taking it out of his hand.   
  
“I got you,” Porthos says again, soft this time. Olly smiles at the darkness behind his closed eyes, and thinks he feels a kiss on his cheek before he drifts away into nothingness.   


 

* * *

  
  
Athos sees comprehension dawn, the memory suddenly coming to life — Porthos’ face is so expressive, it’s impossible to miss. He smooths his beard with one hand, and hitches his shoulder.   
  
“It’s not going to be a problem, is it?” he asks. He’s not going to insult the man by acting like he doesn’t know what he just said, or by dancing around the issue of their previous meeting. They can either work together or they can’t. He might as well find out which.  
  
“No,” Porthos says, slowly shaking his head. “No. It was a long time ago. I’m just kicking myself for not recognizing you, Olivier.”   
  
He controls his instinctive wince at the name, but only barely. “Just Athos,” he corrects. “As you say, it was… a long time ago.”   
  
Porthos regards him with those shrewd black eyes, and then his face softens.  “Things change,” he says, and he doesn’t mean that Athos has grown a beard.   
  
A sudden, giddy temptation strikes him. He could tell this man. He could tell this man  _everything_ , and he would understand. He would take those confessions with the same equanimity that he’d done all those years ago, when all Athos’ secrets were of the body, and not of the spirit. He knows it for a certainty.   
  
He steps on that temptation, and crushes it.   
  
“You look exactly the same,” he tells Porthos, picking up his jacket from the back of his chair. “The name’s distinctive, of course, but there was no mistaking you, from the start. You might be a bit taller, though,” he adds, offering a scant smile.   
  
Porthos takes the hint, thank God, and stands, shrugging on his own coat. “Possible,” he says, with his own broad grin. “You have anything going after this? Can I buy you a drink?”   
  
He must look alarmed, because Porthos puts both hands up. “Just between old friends,” he clarifies.   
  
Athos considers, and finally nods. “Yes,” he says. “I think I would like that.”  


End file.
